


Hearth

by No-D_Whittaker (HalfBakedPoet)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Date Night, F/F, Fire, First Time, Fluff and Smut, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, My First Smut, Portrait of a lady on fire cameo, stone cold sober on the edits, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24337999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/No-D_Whittaker
Summary: Do all lovers feel as though they're inventing something?
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38
Collections: Sloshed Saturday





	Hearth

“What’re we fumbling around in the dark for?”

“Doctor, we are _not_ turning the lights on.”

“Was just saying I want to—”

“Put the sonic down—“

“If you’d just let me—“

“No, don’t—“

But the split second had passed with the amber flare of the sonic in the dark of Yaz’s bedroom; the lights flashed on, blinding them both.

“Aw, I told you not to,” groaned Yaz, scrubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“Sorry,” said the Doctor, scrunching hers closed. “I just thought—I mean, you looked lovely tonight—I mean, you always do, and I wanted to _see_ —” Grey-green blots danced in her vision, and she squeezed her eyes shut once more, waving the sonic at the light switch again. There was a pause in the dark, both of them panting; fervent kisses interrupted by their singed retinas. The Doctor licked her swollen lips, still sticky and sweet with Yaz’s lip gloss. Strawberry, was it? She’d forgotten to give the flavor a name; its name could have been Yaz for all she cared, pinned against the door, the wall, the bookshelf as they made their way toward the bed, leading each other by lips and fingertips, a trail of shoes and socks and a pile of sky blue coat and leather jacket behind them.

Still, she had to ask. “…Have I spoiled the moment?”

She felt Yaz shift beside her, heard the bedsprings give under her weight, and Yaz’s soft hands found hers, finger by finger. And one of Yaz’s searching hands patted up from the hem of her untucked shirt, past the trailing bracers that had slipped off her shoulders, fingertips sliding up her neck to cup her cheek. The Doctor pressed into the touch, and she turned to kiss Yaz’s palm, the edge of her knuckle, her wrist. Yaz trailed her thumb over the Doctor’s mouth, and the Doctor nibbled gently, her front teeth scraping over Yaz’s thumbnail.

“C’mere.” The whisper hovered in the dark between them: an ask, an invitation, a defibrillation; the Doctor’s hearts quickened anew. Yaz never made demands, and the Doctor could never tell her no, anyway. Her eyes had adjusted enough to watch Yaz’s silhouette recline, and she crawled onto the bed, came to rest on top of her, hesitating an inch from her mouth. She thought she could see the part of Yaz’s lips, her hair fanned out under her in black waves, a shy question in her shining eyes. The Doctor traced her jaw with feather-light fingers and pressed her forehead to Yaz’s, before relinquishing her resistance against the urge to kiss.

And there were Yaz’s hands again, against her stomach, and she shuddered into Yaz’s mouth. Yaz’s muffled voice pitched low, reaching deep to christen with sound the sudden wanting well that had sprung between them. Yes, that was all that mattered, Yaz’s name and its assignation to her body where she could touch, though she couldn’t speak it; Yaz’s fingers, Yaz’s mouth, Yaz’s hips. Speech would require the Doctor’s occupied tongue, which searched for more lip gloss, tasted the hollow of Yaz’s neck where it met her clavicle, and Yaz whimpered under her. Yaz tugged the Doctor’s shirt, which she agreed would have to come off by pulling it over her head. And layer by layer, they laid themselves bare in the awkward button and zipper pauses, until there was only smooth skin and the weight of another being, and the swelling warmth between their legs.

Yaz propped herself onto her elbows, and the Doctor angled backward with her, hyperaware of the give and take that was searing each of her trillions of cells alive, one by one. It had to have been a trick, because Yaz tumbled her over, and she was only too willing to comply, her protesting yelp forgotten in a low moan as Yaz’s knee came up between her thighs. She mirrored the movement, reveling in the heat she found, the pace they tacitly agreed to, which stoked sensory nerves to life. She ought to have felt shame or to have second-guessed any part of this, but it was _Yaz;_ Yaz never had to second guess, and the way she kissed down the Doctor’s chest murmured _stop thinking, Doctor. Feel._ Yaz’s teeth found a nipple; something that hadn’t been as well attended when she was a man, and it drove fresh shockwaves over and into her. An arc and rebound of electric signals coursed through her nervous system, burrowed into every corner of her from that single terminal. She could feel the surge curl her toes; even the soles of her feet seemed to flush. The way this body made love, a new language though she knew billions; a whole new method of communication with her own slickening, with relocated nerve endings, unspooling as they stood on end for Yaz’s touch, angling, reaching, wanting, needing.

That was the name for it, _need_ , that bridge between bodily function and passionate desire, come to one hard bud which made her jump when Yaz found it, dipped lower, dragged fluid back upward; the need for sparking friction, the need for a liquid layer between the whorls of Yaz’s fingerprint and her, the need for Yaz to know how this felt alive and _new_.

She moaned. Sex can’t have felt this good when she was a man, she was certain. Biologically, it was impossible; she simply hadn’t had enough nerve endings then—and Yaz circled her again, tracing the outline of her slowly, and the Doctor forgot to finish her thought.

“Yaz,” she gasped, her fingernails digging into Yaz’s shoulder as Yaz sucked a spot on her neck. She could feel the tender blood vessels loosen and rupture between Yaz’s teeth, as she pulled them closer to the surface of the Doctor’s skin. “Yaz, this is… you’re…” Words failed her, and Yaz kissed back up to her mouth, slow in the way she hushed her, fingers still working in rhythm.

“Have I ever told you you talk too much?”

“Only about two hundred and sevent—” Yaz’s fingertip flicked, and the Doctor hissed an inhale, sensation rippling up through her. She gritted her teeth through the plateau that could still raise the hairs on her arms, bit down on Yaz’s shoulder as her hips bucked toward a new edge. 

Yaz held her, rested her cheek against the Doctor’s, murmured, “Let go,” into her hair. That same blend of ask and invitation, a clear lighthouse beam in a foggy night.

The Doctor trembled, alight. Her tremors mounted, reached the crest of a wave, came crashing down with a noise she didn’t know she could make, as she scrabbled to find purchase against Yaz’s back. Her hearts raced one another; the rest of her muscles jumping as her lungs sped into breath, and still, Yaz held her tightly through the shock, need fulfilled, through the decline as the Doctor relaxed into her again.

What was it the women in the movie they’d watched earlier had said? The Doctor caught her breath, counted them into a neat fifteen as her shudders slowed, then halted, Yaz tracing circles along her ribs and chest. _Do all lovers feel as though they’re inventing something?_ She remembered leading Yaz by the hand down the hall after their film and takeaway night in, as she pushed off the bed, flipping Yaz over to roam her neck and collarbones with her mouth. She recalled her own skin scorching as flames licked feminine outlines; the two women burning over a neglected portrait; longing that ached in the fine-boned drawings and pigment strokes; the crush of their sheets in mornings after. And this foreign yearning had kindled when Yaz’s idle, insistent hand found her inner thigh in the offshoot projector light, a sudden flint strike in the brush as the dress caught fire.

Yaz arched under her; skin taut, though desire unfurled with another languid moan and the splay of her wanton legs. The Doctor laid a trail of kisses between her breasts, pausing to tease one nipple, then the other, and she remembered meeting Rumi, who’d whispered _the way you make love is the way God will be with you_ . She’d amended that to _the universe_ , though the universe was always with her in the large and small things; now in the way Yaz also trembled when she kissed her rolling hips, in the earthy softness of her thighs as she kissed inside those, too. She decided she wasn’t inventing as her hands trailed rib ridges: Yaz could have been a sprawling galaxy full of stars and planets, for all the sensory _newness_ that were the feel, sound, smell, and taste of her, but the Doctor wasn’t _creating._ She was discovering, laying claim, reveling.

Tongue. The Doctor was glad to know the word for _tongue_ as she smoothed hers against Yaz, whose responsive hips lifted. Taste. That word, too. The precise name for this flavor, better than strawberry lip gloss that only pretended to be Yaz. And Yaz whimpered her name, hands undecided between balling fists in the sheets or combing through the Doctor’s hair, fingernails raking. The Doctor closed her eyes, nuzzled the trimmed, dark hair that tickled her cheeks and nose as she stole another taste. Yaz’s wordless voice pitched higher, and the tension she’d worked methodically to coil unraveled, a final flare before burning out. She nosed along Yaz’s thigh and up her hip, dusting kisses every few inches as they collapsed into cinders, a fine layer of ash: residual desire only for words like _hold_ and _breathe._

The sheet she pulled over them cooled in the air it displaced, chilled the lingering sheen of sweat, shooing away the heat still radiating off their shoulders. Yaz tucked her head under the Doctor’s chin with a sigh, and she kissed the skin she met in the hollow of her neck. Their legs tangled until their bodies agreed to make shapes the other could fit, the last spiraling embers extinguished on their sleeping breath.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, go watch _Portrait of a Lady on Fire_ if you haven't seen it. You won't regret it.
> 
> Shoutout to Glitteribbur for beta and workshop!!
> 
> -NDW


End file.
